


artificial paradises

by LyraLV



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Babybones (Undertale), Gen, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 12:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Papyrus receives a gift.





	artificial paradises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).
  * Inspired by [ain't this the life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319578) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 

> A canon (apparently?!) ATTL gift fic for nilchance. <3 
> 
> Set pre-series in Underfell a few years prior to Sans collaring Papyrus when they are living on the streets.
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Despite its name, there are some places in Hotland that can feel disarmingly cool for its inhabitants. Places like the tall, winding alleys where trash is carelessly tossed from above by the monsters with somewhat safe homes, uncaring of the terrible state of the location that’s already falling to pieces. Many monsters call the Underground incredibly small, but for Papyrus, its huge and loud, and it grates against his hearing.

He doesn’t understand how people can find such a loud place tiny. What was it his brother called their home? Oh, that’s right. Claustrophobic.

Papyrus rolls the word around in his thoughts and attempts softly saying it to himself. It’s clunky, just like he is. He hates being small and helpless. There’s so much he feels like he could do to help his brother, if only Sans would let him. Instead, he’s left to sit around and wait for whatever food Sans brings back with him, a long day’s worth of scouring only yielding sparse morsels. Sans always gives him the bigger portions. Papyrus has learned not to fight it. His brother can be testy about certain things.

Their home consists of a balled up shirt for a pillow and a thick coat that Sans found in a dumpster dive once while the majority of other monsters were sleeping. Papyrus remembers the look on his brother’s face when he found it, ecstasy and disbelief and then immediate caution as he looked around, daring his fortune to be taken away by fate. The jacket, which was far too large to be worn by either of them, had been an answer to the late nights when the alley became too damp and chilly to sleep well on the ground. Not that the ground was ever really comfortable to begin with, but they made do with what they had. 

Some monsters despise the uncomfortable dankness of the alleyways. Papyrus knows it as his home. Perhaps one day, he and Sans can move somewhere that’s cold so that the cloying heat of Hotland doesn’t suffocate them.

He’s supposed to be sleeping now. Tomorrow is another long day of scavenging for food. Normally, Papyrus would be able to eventually pass out within an hour, but the hunger twists tighter than usual in his stomach, and his brother has yet to curl up beside him under their makeshift blanket. Frowning, Papyrus twists on his side and peers out from under the jacket at his brother’s hunched over back, his body illuminated by the pale perpetual light of Hotland that stretches even to the furthest corner of the alley. 

Papyrus learned the word “perpetual” just yesterday. His brother discovered that he doesn’t learn the same way as him, at least not so far as normal textbooks go (not that they have those around anymore, that is), but the waterlogged dictionary sitting in his inventory is helping Papyrus a lot, and it keeps him fascinated, aching to learn more. In the past Sans has also helped him sound out words. Focusing on writing is more of a struggle than testing the words on his tongue, tracing them in the dictionary with his finger, and allowing the rest of the world to diminish to just that one book in his lap. Sans used to snap at him for not paying attention to the rest of his surroundings until he finally wrangled Papyrus into promising not to touch the book unless he was securely in the confines of the alley with Sans. 

It’s more than fair. Thanks to his dictionary, Papyrus has learned that his name is tied to some odd human custom dealing with paper. It was the first word he looked up in the dictionary, and needless to say, he was a little disappointed. Papyrus is a name that should mean “great” or “terrible.” Perhaps he should call himself the Great and Terrible Papyrus. 

He stifles a laugh.

“I can hear you snorting from here, Paps. For the last fu— freaking time, go to sleep,” Sans growls.

Papyrus flinches but swiftly throws a glare at his brother’s back. He’s not a child! He can sleep whenever he wants! 

Sans twists away from whatever’s in his lap that’s been keeping his attention and matches Papyrus’s glare with one of his own. It’s nowhere near as hostile as the look Sans gives some of the other monsters whenever they come near, but Papyrus knows better than to tell Sans that. It might remind him to not care as much or that he shouldn’t be caring at all. Sans works hard to keep up a tough guy image. Papyrus has learned not to bring up such dangerous things like love or care. He doesn’t want to risk losing the little he gets.

That doesn’t mean he has to let Sans boss him around, though. Deepening his frown, Papyrus projects all of his anger at Sans and sticks out his tongue.

Sans rolls his eyelights and looks away. Ha! Serves him right.

“You need your sleep, Papyrus. Stop sulking, and stop staring at me. Just close your eyes and face the freaking wall already. Jeez.”

Sans continues to mutter under his breath, and his words are a lot more colorful than what he usually says around his brother. Joke’s on him, though. Papyrus has impeccable hearing, and he knows those words and more. He doesn’t just use his dictionary to learn big words, and it’s Sans’s own fault for allowing his little brother to pull the wool over his eyes.

Heaving a deep breath, he squints his eyes shut and yells, “Yeah? Well, you ain’t shit, neither!”

His voice bounces against the walls. Whoops. That was louder than he intended. The noise does nothing to quell the feeling of his brother’s intensely fearsome gaze aimed his way once more, and Papyrus is lucky he had the foresight to close his eyes. If he can’t see it, it can’t hurt him. That’s how he chases most of the scary noises away at night at least.

He almost misses the sound of Sans getting up. Almost. His hearing is a curse at times, and at the soft shift of each of his brother’s steps, Papyrus flinches. He tugs the furry hood of the jacket a little closer as the steps pause right next to him.

Papyrus waits with bated breath. He’s not scared. He’s not! It’s just really cold in this alley, and that’s the only reason his bones are rattling. 

A tap on his shoulder. Papyrus waits a beat, then two, and then he opens an eye and peeks up at his brother’s crouched form. Sans lifts a brow.

“Rule number one: never take your eyes off your opponent. Wanna guess what rule number two is?” Sans’s unamused stare is enough to make Papyrus want to shrink in the jacket. Nevertheless, he has a reputation to uphold, and no one with the name Papyrus backs down from a challenge.

“Is it kick your idiot older sibling in the coccyx?”

A flicker of amusement in Sans’s expression. Papyrus senses a win.

“I’d like to see you try, kid. But that’s not it,” Sans talks right on over his protest at being called a child. “If I tell you to do something, I mean it. Not because I’m older. Not because you’re being annoying, which is downright all the time.” Sans rolls his eyelights again. Papyrus’s frown deepens. “It’s because I know better, and I need you to cooperate with me so that we can stay safe and alert and not go dragging our asses around the next day. Ok?”

Papyrus glares at the wall behind Sans. He doesn’t have to admit that his brother’s right. Not out loud. 

“You said a bad word,” he says instead.

Sans huffs something close to a laugh, though it sounds far more tired and exasperated than usual. “Yeah, and you’re not exactly the angel of the morning, either, meathead.” He places his hand on Papyrus’s face and shoves his head back onto the shirt-pillow. Papyrus swings at him and misses by a yard as his brother shuffles back to the entrance of the alley.

“Now, go to sleep, will ya?”

“You’re not sleeping, either,” Papyrus points out.

“Working on something,” Sans shoots back as he sits down and returns to fiddling with the thing in his lap.

The jacket is tossed to the side as Papyrus pushes to his feet and tiptoes over to see what Sans is working on.

“_Papyrus_. I told you—”

“Lemme see,” he says, peering over Sans’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the dark thing Sans is covering with one hand and dodges the other hand that swipes at him. He worms his way under his brother’s arm and reaches for the object.

“It’s not— Fine! Fine! Shove over already,” Sans growls followed shortly by something that sounds remarkably close to “annoying little shit,” but Papyrus lets that one slide. He peers at the object with wide-awake curiosity.

“What is it?”

“It’s not done is what it is,” Sans retorts, but he holds the thing up in the light so that Papyrus can see.

It’s a small bundle of material. Almost black in the thin light, but Papyrus can catch a glimpse of crimson in the yarn. It looks incredibly soft to the touch.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Last dumpster dive. Found a pair of needles not too far off either. Looks like it's the right size for this skein.”

“What’s a skein?” Papyrus asks nearly out of instinct as his gaze remains riveted to the tiny red bundle. His fingers itch to touch.

“It’s this ball of yarn here. Move your coccyx,” Sans says as he shoves Papyrus out from under his arm. Papyrus compensates by immediately shifting to sit in front of Sans. He watches with rapt attention as Sans picks up the needles and resumes winding the yarn around them.

“What are you doing with it?”

“Nunya,” Sans says.

Papyrus looks up at him and crosses his arms. “I ain’t falling for that again!” His glare sharpens when Sans smirks at the yarn he’s fiddling with. Papyrus huffs. “C’mon, Sans, tell me!” 

He shoves his brother’s arm.

“Quit it, will you! You’re messing it up! Paps, stop!”

Papyrus finally lets him go, but he keeps his gaze firm to let Sans know he means business. He crosses his arms again and adopts the same stern look he’s seen on Sans’s face so many times.

“Tell me,” he says.

Sans sighs like he’s being greatly inconvenienced, but he makes room for Papyrus at his side once more.

“C’mere, you sad sack.” 

Papyrus scoots over. 

“‘S called knitting. Found an old pamphlet about it awhile ago. You can make all kinds of things with it if you’ve got enough yarn.”

Papyrus assesses the ball in Sans’s lap. It looks fairly decent, but not large enough to make them something like a blanket or clothes.

“What are you making?” He asks.

Sans hums. He takes his time answering, pretending to think it over with exaggerated purpose, and Papyrus rolls his eyes as he waits for his brother to quit being a jerk. He helpfully jabs Sans with his elbow. Sans grunts and jabs him back, but he takes the hint.

“Might be able to make something small if you keep your trap shut. It’ll be done in a little bit.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything at all!” Papyrus protests.

“Yeah,” Sans says, smug. “Y’know what will tell you what it is, though? La la land. Go to bed.”

“But brother,” Papyrus says sarcastically. “How can I go to bed when we don’t have one?”

Sans snorts. “Yak, yak, yak. That’s all I’m hearing. What, think you’re funny now? Better watch out before the comedy police puts you under a rest.”

“You’re not funny, either.”

“Yeah, but I’m smarter. And this smartass is telling you to get off yours and go to bed. This thing’ll be finished by the time you’re up and running around again and being a twenty-four hour hassle.”

Sometimes, his brother can be unbelievably irritating. Papyrus groans, but he gets up and stomps back over to the jacket and pillow. The ground feels even more unforgiving as he slumps onto it and angrily tugs the jacket around his shoulders. He’s not pouting.

“Sweet dreams,” Sans singsongs. Papyrus glares at the wall even harder. The quietness of the alley resumes, and the dark cradles him like a baby.

Before he knows it, he’s out like a light.

***

It’s early in the morning. Papyrus can guess the hour pretty well based on the fact that he just doesn’t sleep long at all. It’s a habit that drives Sans up the wall sometimes, but Papyrus can’t keep his mind quiet that long without needing to get up and do something. He hears the soft almost-snores of his brother at his back, and the familiarity settles some anxious part of him. He opens his eyes.

There’s something next to his head. He recognizes the material before he even reaches out to touch it with eager fingers. The yarn feels just as soft as it looked last night. He sits up and examines it closely, unraveling the long, stitched fabric.

It’s a scarf. A carefully knitted one, the symmetry of its design marvelous to Papyrus’s eyes. He holds it up in the dim light and feels the gasp escape him, the shock giving way to a grin he can’t even think of hiding. He runs his hand up the scarf with awe.

His brother made this. For him? He wouldn’t just leave it beside Papyrus’s head without the intention of giving it to him, would he? Papyrus is almost worried to assume. He feels a possessiveness of the scarf already forming, and the thought of letting it go makes him clutch it tight and close to his chest.

There. He feels it within the traces of the delicately crafted material. The faint crackle of his brother’s magic responds from within it, so very light that it’s nearly missed, but layered entirely with purpose. It’s just enough to make him feel Sans’s presence with him like a comforting hand. It cradles him with a gentle touch unlike any other. He thought he’d forgotten the softness of his brother, having last felt it so long ago only when he was a babybones.

Papyrus traces the scarf with gentle fingers and brings it close to his face and inhales. It smells like safety. It smells like family.

He unwinds the scarf and wraps it around his neck. The way it cushions his spine is like nothing he’s ever felt before. He nuzzles it with his nasal cavity and startles at the sight of Sans staring up at him with an unreadable expression. Papyrus schools his face into a frown again, but he doubts Sans didn’t see the vulnerable happiness on his face. He waits for his brother to snap at him.

Several long seconds pass between them with nothing said. Sans takes a sharp breath, and Papyrus braces himself.

“Don’t make a big deal about it. It’s nothing. Understand?” Sans says.

Papyrus blinks, derailed. 

“I said, _ok_?” Sans snaps.

“Uh huh,” Papyrus says. He stares at his brother, bug-eyed. Sans scoffs and rolls to his side, giving Papyrus his back. The air feels tense, but it doesn’t touch Papyrus at all. The delight rushes through him once more.

He returns his attention to the lovely scarf around his neck. The lack of pretty words doesn’t diminish the caring nature of the gift at all. Papyrus doesn’t need Sans to say he loves him. The time and effort and magic placed into the scarf is worth more than any flowery language a dictionary could ever provide. 

He lies back down next to his brother, still idly tracing the scarf, and closes his eyes. He thinks he’ll be able to sleep a little longer with this.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: homelessness, mentions of starvation
> 
> Thanks for letting me write this, Nil.


End file.
